


Oliver

by Salambo06



Category: Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Oliver's POV, pinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 05:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13160259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: But, one too hot afternoon, the boy that had shook my hand and lended me his room, took my by surprise, turning intoEliowithout any warning..During the summer of 83, Oliver meets Elio.





	Oliver

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> It was doomed to happen so here I am, writing a fic in the Call me by your name fandom!  
> Let me know what you think, please, I'm quite stressed about this one!
> 
> Thank you to [xtina](http://lizlemo.tumblr.com) for reading this story and finding the right words to reassure me <3
> 
> Enjoy,  
> Pauline.
> 
> Disclaimer: the lines in the dialogue only part were directly taken from the book.

The boy turns out to be anything but.

I hear him at night, pacing in the room next door **.**

The thing is, I don’t sleep most of the times. It had quickly become a habit, riding to the spot Alberto had drunkenly show me that first evening. I take my bike, leaving behind everything that’s on my mind and goes to stare at the landscape that could so easily become my home, before riding back to this room that would never be mine. The house is always quiet, Mafalda sometimes walking around the kitchen, singing softly to herself songs I cannot understand. I do not disturb her, climbing up the stairs two at the time and refusing to look at the half open door to the bathroom. I prefer the night when I don’t hear him at all, I can pretend he’s already asleep and not out there, his fingers discovering bodies with endless skin, his mouth tasting someone’s else scent.

But most nights he comes in late, either making not a sound or walking all around as if to wake me up. But I lie wide awake already, half convinced this night will be _the_ night I finally do something, anything really to finally _know_. I do try to sleep, staring up at the ceiling and certainly not the books, frames or papers belonging to the boy currently making it hard to breath. It’d be too tempting to make them all mine, no matter how, just leaving my imprint on each and everyone of them so that I’ll remain with him even when I’m gone. Another thing that keeps me awake, how stupidly funny it sounds, leaving. It is strange, counting down the days when I have spent years living each ones without thinking about what tomorrow might offers.

But, one too hot afternoon, the boy that had shook my hand and lended me his room, took my by surprise, turning into _Elio_ without any warning.

 

.

 

I don’t touch him.

It’s my own way of keeping it all under control. I notice, of course I do, but I don’t entertain Elio’s silence, already saying too much. I lie in the grass, his feet barely a few meters away from my head, and keep my eyes tightly shut. Sometimes he plays the guitar, but most of the times he doesn’t speak a word, the afternoon slipping through our fingers without either of us noticing. I keep quiet too, nor do I look at him. Better if he thinks I do not care about what he’s doing, or even about him at all. Nothing would come out of putting into words this visceral need to kiss each of his toes, one by one, taking them into my mouth and sucking until he’d be craving more, more, _more_. But I keep to myself, pretending in vain he’s not even there.

I take on skipping dinners, having now learn they turn out to be the hardest part of the day. He usually does a bad job at hiding it then. Especially when I arrive late, having decided to share their table after all. Mrs Perlman always sits me next to him, probably wishing to have the two of us talk, grow closer and enjoy the few hours spent together. It puts everything back in its place, his parents and my place around the table, the host they trust and yet dreams of their son’s heart beating inside my hands every night. The result of it all is that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body like waves of lust, each accidental touches sending thrills down my spine without being ever able to do anything about it. Strange, I never thought how hard it could be, not think about his sliding my feet up his ankle, only to witness the goosebump rising all over his body.

The thing is, he doesn’t touch me either.

Maybe it’s the worst of it all. He walks around in nothing but his swimming trunks, stretching in the sun, playing his piano or riding his bike, and all I can do is _watch_. I’m aware how sick and twisted it is to feel this urge to make every inch of his skin mine all the time, wanting to bite down his shoulder blade and leave a permanent mark there. I should be the role model here, the grown up who set up boundaries and make sure it all remains just like it is. He most likely doesn’t understand any of it anyway, the laws of attractions, the mystery of love.

Did I at his age? Did I already looked at other boys and thought about what their lips would taste like? Or did it started much earlier than that?

Does it even matters?

 

.

 

Then, come the days where I send it all to hell.

We jog together every morning, go swimming at dawn, visite the town for long hours. Elio smiles and laughs and stares up at him with something intense and yet so shy around the edge of his eyes. I don’t look away, don’t give in into the small voice in my head begging to reach out, and smiles back with all the innocence attached to these new feelings. We spend hours in the garden, me lying in the grass or by the water while Elio writes his music. I long for the mornings when he comes down with his guitar, and I find myself craving for his fingers flying over his piano, enveloping the both of us in an instant stretching into eternity **.** He doesn’t mind, I know he enjoys it just as much, and I’m relieved his focus is on something else entirely during those times. I’m not sure I’m doing a good job at hiding it all when he lashes onto the piano, notes filling the air while all of mine is taken from my lungs.

B. become also ours, its street, its café and hidden corners. Elio knows everything, talks and talks about each secrets, and all I can do is listen. I marvel at his knowledge, dares to speak it up and pretend not to notice his blushing. He leans into me, brush our fingers, licks his lips, and I stare, dazzled by his sudden boldness. Does he see it, all the parts of me begging to stroke, touch, taste all of his? It’s probably better if he doesn’t **.** I can’t ruin this, can’t ruin him. I’d rather let his flushed neck and cheeks follow me through the night, turning into fantasies that don’t need speaking out, than take the last step and crash all that is us together.

Anything but let our bodies collide only to fall into pieces on his bedroom floor, never to be pulled together again.

 

.

 

It’s all fine until it isn’t.

I dare only for him to pull away.

I keep my distance again.

 

.

 

"If you only knew how little I know about the things that really matter."

"What things that matter?"

"You know what things. By now you of all people should know."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I thought you should know."

"Because you thought I should know."

"Because I want you to know. Because there is no one else I can say it to but you."

"Do you know what you're saying?"

"Yes, I know what I'm saying and you're not mistaking any of it. I'm just not very good at

speaking. But you're welcome never to speak to me again."

"Wait. Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Ye-es."

"Wait for me here, I have to run upstairs and get some papers. Don't go away."

"You know very well I'm not going anywhere."

 

.

 

Elio kisses the way a drowning man desperately searches for air. Mouth hanging open, pressed against my lips, his entire body already seeking mine. The finger that had stroke his lips second before is now caressing the ever so soft skin of his neck, teasing. His tongue darts out first, tasting me slowly and I can hear my own walls falling apart as I lean into him. It doesn't last long, barely enough time for my fingers to thread through his hair before I pull back, already needing more.

“Better now?”

My own voice sounds weak even to my ear, and with my heart pounding, I try to take back control over my own breathing. Elio all but attacks, crawling on top of me, invading my mouth again. I arche into him, seeking more, more, more. It strikes me when I least expect it, the memory of him having just been caught touching himself, and how I had wanted to lie down and hold him through it. It hadn’t been by lust, by desire or passion. I had needed to have him close, to let him know it was all fine, that he was allowed to want this, to want me. That I wanted him just as much, that I had been fooling myself all this time, trying to see a boy where he already was becoming a man.

And now that he’s kissing me as if to engrave the exact taste of our kiss, I find myself falling.

 

.

 

It all becomes inevitable, and I stand by and watch it happen. Riding back home. Our feet meeting each other under the table. His blood on a tissue. Silence, again. The night he comes back only to shower immediately. His grin the next day. Silence, still. And above it all, the memory of his lips learning the shape of mine.

 

.

 

_Can’t stand the silence. I need to speak to you._

I wait until he goes down for breakfast to reply, placing the note where he would not miss it before walking out of the house. I don’t dare to come back until it’s almost time, spending the entire day wondering where to stand when he pushes open my door at midnight, wondering if I should be there at all. I know he will, know reason had been lost on him for days now, and I am the one who can still put an end to something that has yet to truly begin. And yet I find myself sitting on my bed, listening to the last note on the piano downstairs and waiting eagerly for the sound of his footstep in the stairs.

But he comes, and I’m here, waiting for him just like I have been waiting since the very first day.

 _Don’t go,_ I think as Elio clings onto me, lips on my neck and his body arching against mine. _I have no idea what I’m doing_ , I pour into each kisses along his chest, pelvis and thigh. _But please, let me have this forever_.

 

.

 

“Why the peach?” I ask, the two of us lying in bed, barely touching.

He doesn’t reply, his silence giving away enough already, and I want to kiss him. I want to cup his face in both of my hands and brought his lips to mine, tasting them so very slowly and make it _alright_ again. Just like before, when I hadn’t yet taken his body, when he had whispered how nervous he was and I had still longed for his naked body against mine.

“I thought you liked it,” he finally whispers, eyes meeting mine. “How sick I was.”

I shake my head, heart on my lips, “I liked that it was you doing it, experimenting.”

“I was thinking about you,” he says after another long silence. “I thought about doing this. To you.”

“Taking me?” I ask, already knowing but wanting to hear it from his mouth.

“Yes,” he breathes, having now turned to face him but still so far away. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Think about it,” he replies, teeth grazing his lower lips, and I don’t have to look down to know he’s hard.

I allow myself the time to properly consider it all. All the times I almost let it happen. All the words my parents spoke about this. All the lovers that probably wished for this exactly but never asked. All I’m ready to give to _him_.

“Yes.”

His lips crashed against mine just as our body learn their way to each other again. For a second, it is as if we never left this bed, having remained there all day, lost into the other, discovering all there is still left to know. My hands find his face as he settles on top of me, his erection pressed directly against mine, and I arche into the touch, letting him know just how perfectly fine it all is. We don’t talk about it more than that, having never been our forte, and Elio’s concerned whispers breathed directly against my skin are like caresses, setting each and every one of my nerves on fire. I nod and moan and kiss the skin offered, welcoming him inside me with a sense of _belonging_ that takes all the air out of my lungs. I wonder if this is how he felt too when I pushed into him the night before, if this is why he pulled away in the morning. Did he sensed that he would never be just himself again, that he had given me a part of him that he would never be able to take back?

“Elio,” he gasps, eyes locked in mine. “Elio.”

I kiss him, breathing my own name against his mouth and feeling all my barriers falling to the ground with each thrust, becoming his, his, _his._

 

.

 

I send it all to hell again.

We jog together in the morning, pushing the other against the nearest wall or tree and sharing every breath. We go swimming at dawn, our naked bodies floating in the water and his hands traveling all over me. We visit the town for hours, Elio finding new hidden spots where we can ravish each other without worrying about the world around. And I’m young, younger than I ever been, dancing in the middle of the night and running down the street either to catch or escape him.

We go back to Monet’s Bern and this time I don’t pull away when he kisses me, undresses me, takes me. “You are permanently here now,” he whispers, eyes wide and breath short. “You can never leave this place, it has captured your memory.”

“I’m right here,” I gasp, losing sense of reality once more.

And when, hours later, our bodies meet again, I am the one marking him as mine. With bite marks, kisses and slow rolls of my hips. He holds on to me, cling to my shoulders and moans his own name against my skin.

With Monet’s flowers and trees as only witnesses, we turn into one entity, over and over again.

 

.

 

“Oliver.”

I stop, turning around to find Mr P. at his desk, looking at me. He’s smiling that smile that can only mean one thing, and in the end, have I not been waiting for this moment all along.

“Do you know where Elio is?”

“No,” I shrug, walking to meet him.

He sits back, pretending to read yet another letter, “The two of you have grown closer.”

“Is that a question professor?”

He shakes his head, looking back up. “No. No, it isn’t.” He smiles, leaning against his chair, and I sit down on the sofa, waiting. “I’m happy we chose you, Oliver.”

“I’m glad you did too,” I reply, considering each words carefully.

“You never spoke of your family,” he points out, taking me by surprise.

“There isn’t much to say,” I reply, hands clasped on my lap. “They’re both professors, science for my mother and sociologie for my father. No siblings.”

He nods, pensively. “Do you get along?”

I look down, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t say so. Not in the way you…” I stop, not having to spoke the words out loud for either of us to understand. I’ve seen enough of their interaction to know Elio would never face the rejection I’ve known, never struggled to be himself among the people he love most. And I’m grateful, so very grateful for this boy who’s probably thinking about our lovemaking in this very instant and wondering how it is still going to change tonight. “He’s lucky.”

“He is, yes, but not only because of us.”

“I’m thinking about going to Rome, go back home from there,” I reply, not sure what else to say.

“He’ll go with you.”

I smile, “I know.”

 

.

 

_Chiagneva sempe ca durmeva sola,_

_mo dorme co' li muorte accompagnata._

She always wept because she slept alone,

Now she sleeps among the dead.

 

He belongs there, among people just as passionate as he is. I watch him all night, laughing and debating, and all I can see is a man finding his way into the world. Not with me by his side. It can’t be. He needs more, needs to live it all, experience it firsthand and be disappointed, be sad and angry when it all goes wrong. He needs to dance around the streets of Rome with men or women holding his hand, making him spin and pushing him against walls to taste all of him.

He needs more than just today, already tomorrow.

 

.

 

I leave him at the station.

Still feeling his arms around my waist, I sit down and watch him. He smiles, hands shaking by his side. I try to smile back and fail, looking away the moment the train gets in motion. I take out the only item I allowed myself to take with me, staring at Monet’s painting with a lump forming in my throat. Is it how it’s gonna feel now, thinking back on the summer of 83’? I find myself hoping to remember the exact feeling of his smile lost against my chest, the sound of his ragged breath against my ear, years from now, as if it was still yesterday that he had whispered words he thought I wouldn't hear in the middle of the night.

I leave him at the airport.

Still holding to the memory of his arms around my waist, I sit down and wait for him to find me. Would he have taken the next train, even if only to see me one last time? Or does he expect me to have gone off the waggon and already be on my way back? I shake my head, eyes now closed, pushing aside all ridiculous thoughts.

I leave him.

 

.

 

Five, ten, fifteen, twenty years go by.

I look at him and read in his eyes, barely hidden away, all there for me to see.

“I’m like you,” I breathe. “I remember everything.”

 

 

 _Oliver_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos and feedbacks are always appreciated!  
> follow me @[ggaypilot](http://ggaypilot.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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